the casket and laid a white rose on top, bowed her head for a brief moment, then turned and started back toward her chair. Then she saw him.
Her face, which had been set determinedly, dissolved into anguish at the sight of him, and tears filled and overflowed her eyes. “Zach,” she whispered. “Oh, Zach, he’s gone. Our Tristan is gone.”
Zach took two long strides and gathered her gently into his arms. He closed his eyes and hugged her to him as if she were his long-lost sister. She clung to him the same way, and her slender shoulders shook as she cried silently. Zach held her while Duff gestured to Tristan’s mother to come forward and lay a white rose next to Sandy’s. After Mrs. DuChaud sat, the priest led the pallbearers past the casket to lay red roses on top, one by one, and back to their seats.
Then the priest laid his left hand on Sandy’s shoulder and held out his right toward Zach. “Zachary Winter,” he said. “I thought you swore you’d never come back here.”
“There’s only one reason I would, Duff. I mean, Father...” Zach had no idea what to call him.
Duff smiled and said, “It’s Father Michael, but Duff is fine. Nobody around here dares to call me that.”
Zach nodded uncomfortably, then leaned in closer to the other man as a couple came up to offer Sandy their condolences.
“What happened?” he asked in a low tone. “How did Tristan die?”
“From what I understand, he was walking along the catwalk on the bottom level of the oil platform with one of the Vietnamese roughnecks and he fell into the water near the drill mechanism.”
“Oil platform?” Zach said in surprise as a knot formed in his stomach. “He was on an oil rig? What was he doing there?”
Duff’s gray brows rose. “You don’t know? Have you not talked to Tristan in all these years?”
Zach shrugged, embarrassed. “Not really. We didn’t talk to anybody after we moved. You know, with Zoe being involved in the accident.”
Duff grimaced briefly as he nodded.
“Nothing more than an email at Christmas. A comment on Facebook. You know.”
“His dad was killed on a rig about two months before Tristan’s high school graduation, so he dropped out and went to work on the oil rig to help his mother.”
“But he was going to LSU. He was going to be a veterinarian. How could two months have made a difference?”
Duff nodded grimly. “I talked to him, but he was determined. He saw it as a choice. Taking care of his family—he and Sandy were planning to get married right after graduation—or taking care of himself. He chose his family.”
“Right.” Zach’s throat closed up. He felt sad and angry. Tristan had given up his education and the opportunity for a great career so he could go to work right away. The thought made Zach feel sick as he thought of all Tristan had given up. And for what? To end up dead at the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico?
“Wait a minute, Duff. Tristan had lived on boats and docks and floating logs on the Mississippi River and on the Gulf his whole life. He was the strongest swimmer I’ve ever seen. He couldn’t have fallen overboard and drowned if he tried. What happened out there?”
“I wish I could tell you more but I can’t,” Duff said. “He went over with another guy, a roughneck. Maybe they were arguing or even fighting. Maybe they ran into each other in the dark.”
“You know as well as I do it’s never dark on an oil rig. What’d the autopsy say?”
Duff looked surprised. “The autopsy?”
Zach thought he’d hesitated for an instant. “The autopsy. Who did it?”
“I guess that would have been the ME, John Bookman. He’s the medical examiner for the parish and chief of emergency medicine at the Terrebonne Parish Hospital in Houma.”
“Okay. Houma is about twenty-five miles north of here, right?” Zach asked.
The priest nodded, then gestured with his head. “See Angel?”
Zach followed his gesture and saw Angel DuChaud, Tristan’s ne’er-do-well cousin, talking to a small wiry man. Again, he was surprised. Three years older than he and Tristan, Angel had been the stereotypical bad boy all their lives. But he cleaned up nicely. His hair was styled and his suit fit impeccably, and hid his tattoos.
“The man he’s talking to,” Duff said, “is the parish medical examiner.”
At that moment, Sandy turned around and took Zach’s arm. He smiled at her and patted her hand.
“It’s so good of you to come, Zach,” she said.
“You know nothing could keep me from being here,” he replied.
Duff took Sandy’s hand from Zach’s arm. “Sandy, walk with me over here. I want you to meet—”
Zach silently thanked Duff for distracting Sandy. He hadn’t expected the parish medical examiner to be at Tristan’s funeral, but he was grateful for the opportunity to ask him some questions. He walked toward Angel and, eventually, Tristan’s cousin saw him.
When Angel spotted him, he waved. Zach sketched a half wave in the air and walked over to where Angel and the ME stood. Angel made casual introductions.
“You’re the ME,” Zach said to Dr. John Bookman. “Call me Zach. I was Tristan’s best friend in school.”
“I’m sorry. Terrible thing that happened to Tristan,” the doctor said.
“Do you live here in Bonne Chance?”
“No,” the doctor answered, eyeing Zach narrowly. “I live in Houma. Didn’t Father Michael tell you that?”
Angel wandered away toward the DuChaud family crypt. Zach was glad. He didn’t want him to overhear his next question. “I want to ask you about Tristan DuChaud’s death.”
Bookman’s eyes shifted toward the casket, which was still sitting in front of the vault. But now the vault door was open. “I don’t discuss my work, certainly not at a funeral.”
“I understand. If I may...” Zach paused, wondering if what he was about to do was a mistake. After all, he was here not in his official capacity but just to mourn the death of his best friend and to show his respect for his widow. He decided it didn’t matter whether it was a mistake. He needed to do it, for Tristan.
The question of what his boss would say flitted into his mind but he chased it out again. He’d worry about that later, if it came up.
He leaned in, close to the doctor’s ear. “I’m with the National Security Agency.” That was true. “We’re investigating possible terrorist activity in the area.” That was sort of true but not really. They were picking up chatter in the area around New Orleans and Galveston.
He went on. “I need to know what the cause of death was for Tristan DuChaud. Was foul play involved in his death?”
Dr.
